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Authors: Jay Caspian Kang
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me.”
Hofspaur laughed. Recently, it had been going like this for Finch.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“Not really. None of the red flags that come up for other girls ever came up for her. Even her fan mail was, dare I say, conversational.”
“Conversational?”
Hofspaur let out a faint Bronx cheer.
“Yeah, like they were just usual fan stuff. Where did she grow up, what orifice she likes the best, if she likes black cock or white cock. Actually, I would say half of her mail came from this scene in a remake of
Dances with Wolves
where she blew smoke signals out of her twat.”
“How?”
“That’s what the letters were asking.”
Finch grunted.
“But yes, nothing alarming. Actually, we have someone from your department come in and teach the girls how to spot potential problems. Like a certain tone in a letter or something like that.”
“Do you have the name of this officer?”
“Bar Davis.”
“Bar?”
“I think it’s short for Barbara.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to borrow a sheet of paper to write down that name?” He held up the drawing of Lisa Simpson.
Although he hated to kowtow to any sordid thing, this second viewing of Lisa Simpson, defiled, turned Finch’s stomach. Not because he felt the need to piously hawk over the idols of his childhood, but rather, because the drawing reminded him of Sarah. Even after finishing at the academy, when most of the convictions of youth are hammered over by the mantra of serve and protect, Finch still put his faith in the following equation: “I, Siddhartha Finch, love
The Simpsons
. Everything I findfunny can be found somewhere in the first seven seasons of the show. Humor is important to human relationships. Therefore, if anyone born in America between 1970 and 1986 does not like or ‘get’
The Simpsons
, he/she and I will be missing an integral component to human relationships. Only unhappiness can follow.”
On their third date, Finch, giddied by a mention of Space Camp, rattled off a not quite relevant “It’s like that
Simpsons
when Homer did
x
” monologue. Sarah’s bemused but undeniably uncomprehending reaction—fluttering eyelids, a smile, mouth half open—hurt him, sure, but the prettiness with which she did it made him reconsider the idealism of his youth.
Ten years had passed since the third date, and here he was, staring down a distance without contours, wondering if he had sold out the Simpsons Compatibility Equation to install the always-maturing, yet thoroughly compromised steps in his career of love.
It was a moment he had expected to have at some point. Just not quite this early.
Eyes downcast, he said, “Put that down.”
Hofspaur complied.
Summoning a little more bass in his voice, Finch asked, “So, there were no danger signs in her letters?”
“No.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“Detective.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the letters?”
“Have there been any threatening letters, anything out of the ordinary?”
“Only the usual crap from the stupid cyberpunk cult.”
“Cyberpunk cult?”
HOFSPAUR LED FINCH down a sterile hallway to a room lined with industrial shelving. Inside a banker’s box were hundreds of letters composed entirely with words cut out from newspapers and magazines. In vague, unimaginative language, they detailed the misfortune that would befall the reader if he or she did not stop his or her immoral activity.
As Finch read through a handful, Hofspaur dug in the files until he came up with a letter that had been composed on a sheet of yellow legal paper. He slid it on top of the letters already in Finch’s hand.
Dear GRAY Beaver
You are a SLUTS. IF you do not CEASE AND DESIST with your behavior, we will come for you. You are befouling this city with your INSANE DEPRAVITY. We are SERIOUS. STOP immediately and GET YOUR ASS off the fucking INTERNET .
YOU know who THIS is .
Finch asked, “Are they Christians or something?”
Hofspaur chortled and
Hofspaur laughed. Recently, it had been going like this for Finch.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“Not really. None of the red flags that come up for other girls ever came up for her. Even her fan mail was, dare I say, conversational.”
“Conversational?”
Hofspaur let out a faint Bronx cheer.
“Yeah, like they were just usual fan stuff. Where did she grow up, what orifice she likes the best, if she likes black cock or white cock. Actually, I would say half of her mail came from this scene in a remake of
Dances with Wolves
where she blew smoke signals out of her twat.”
“How?”
“That’s what the letters were asking.”
Finch grunted.
“But yes, nothing alarming. Actually, we have someone from your department come in and teach the girls how to spot potential problems. Like a certain tone in a letter or something like that.”
“Do you have the name of this officer?”
“Bar Davis.”
“Bar?”
“I think it’s short for Barbara.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to borrow a sheet of paper to write down that name?” He held up the drawing of Lisa Simpson.
Although he hated to kowtow to any sordid thing, this second viewing of Lisa Simpson, defiled, turned Finch’s stomach. Not because he felt the need to piously hawk over the idols of his childhood, but rather, because the drawing reminded him of Sarah. Even after finishing at the academy, when most of the convictions of youth are hammered over by the mantra of serve and protect, Finch still put his faith in the following equation: “I, Siddhartha Finch, love
The Simpsons
. Everything I findfunny can be found somewhere in the first seven seasons of the show. Humor is important to human relationships. Therefore, if anyone born in America between 1970 and 1986 does not like or ‘get’
The Simpsons
, he/she and I will be missing an integral component to human relationships. Only unhappiness can follow.”
On their third date, Finch, giddied by a mention of Space Camp, rattled off a not quite relevant “It’s like that
Simpsons
when Homer did
x
” monologue. Sarah’s bemused but undeniably uncomprehending reaction—fluttering eyelids, a smile, mouth half open—hurt him, sure, but the prettiness with which she did it made him reconsider the idealism of his youth.
Ten years had passed since the third date, and here he was, staring down a distance without contours, wondering if he had sold out the Simpsons Compatibility Equation to install the always-maturing, yet thoroughly compromised steps in his career of love.
It was a moment he had expected to have at some point. Just not quite this early.
Eyes downcast, he said, “Put that down.”
Hofspaur complied.
Summoning a little more bass in his voice, Finch asked, “So, there were no danger signs in her letters?”
“No.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“Detective.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the letters?”
“Have there been any threatening letters, anything out of the ordinary?”
“Only the usual crap from the stupid cyberpunk cult.”
“Cyberpunk cult?”
HOFSPAUR LED FINCH down a sterile hallway to a room lined with industrial shelving. Inside a banker’s box were hundreds of letters composed entirely with words cut out from newspapers and magazines. In vague, unimaginative language, they detailed the misfortune that would befall the reader if he or she did not stop his or her immoral activity.
As Finch read through a handful, Hofspaur dug in the files until he came up with a letter that had been composed on a sheet of yellow legal paper. He slid it on top of the letters already in Finch’s hand.
Dear GRAY Beaver
You are a SLUTS. IF you do not CEASE AND DESIST with your behavior, we will come for you. You are befouling this city with your INSANE DEPRAVITY. We are SERIOUS. STOP immediately and GET YOUR ASS off the fucking INTERNET .
YOU know who THIS is .
Finch asked, “Are they Christians or something?”
Hofspaur chortled and
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